Human
by Ghostgirl468
Summary: People are never really what you expect. In the end, they all manage to surprise you, even with the obvious.


Well, it's been agggeessss since I last went on to my account, and suddenly I get a brainwave and a bunch of ideas in my head - it's amazing considering my imagination has been siriusly under-used these past few months.

So, yeah, here's a fic, to do with Sherlock, because I'm still addicted to it.

Summary: There was never any evidence to prove otherwise, but everyone who knew him always, uncontrollably, saw Sherlock as something other than human, something that could never be stopped. Of course, with their stupidly small minds, they were wrong.

Warning: Character Death, Character disappearance, Characters in general being depressed and feeling sorry for something that isn't there to feel sorry for.

Read please, and review pretty please.

oOo

When John Watson first moved in to 221b all those months ago, Mycroft had, in truth, thought very little of it. His brother was always "aqquiring" new flatmates. It was a sociable function he was forced to follow, if he wanted to be able to afford somewhere to live _independently._ Mycroft had never really understood why Sherlock refused to use any of the family's indefinite funds, but then Sherlock had always been difficult to…explain. So, in simplicity, in the beginning, all the flatmates had ever been were flatmates. Even John Watson.

But then, there was something about this Watson fellow, something that Mycroft, the eyes of the Secret Service and the ears of the British Government, had missed.

There weren't many things that Mycroft missed. The last thing he remembered, was that their father had been growing more and more distant from himself. But that technically wasn't Mycroft's fault, considering he had rarely to never seen his father anyway, and the old man was a dithering fool at the best of times. But he blamed himself for this, for not noticing. For not _seeing_ that John had made an instant impact on Sherlock. Because just in the second it took him to blink, John wasn't a flatmate anymore – he was a friend.

Although the rareity of this fact threw almost everyone who 'knew' Sherlock off-balance, Mycroft had managed to sustain his surprise, because somewhere deep down he was pleased for his brother. A real friend was a hard thing to come by these days, and it seemed that good old army doctor John was one of them, and he had come along just in time. There was no such thing as fate or luck in the Holmes world, but Mycroft supposed that their encounter would be the closest thing to it he had ever witnessed.

Of course, with this realisation made, and the same revolution that he had realised it too late, Mycroft immediately took action – kidnapping wasn't exactly the word to describe it, merely, ensuring his brother's company was worthy enough. And it concluded, as the doctor walked away with a military frown on his brow and loyalty following closely at his heels, that John Watson was the most worthy person in the world.

It was at that thought that Mycroft wondered where he had possibly made a mistake. Another one, he would admit grudgingly. Although, maybe everyone had made the mistake. Himself, the landlady Mrs Hudson, Detective Inspector Lestrade, Harriet Watson, possibly even John himself; but most definitely everyone who made a point of keeping an eye on the two. Everyone who knew them, had made the mistake that maybe John made a big enough difference to Sherlock to keep him safe. They had all made the mistake of thinking that the duo were unseperable, unbreakable. Unstoppable. Perhaps together, yes, but in reality, no matter how much time the two _did_ spend together, they were not joined at the hip.

They were not unstoppable.

It had been sixteen days and eight hours since Sherlock Holmes, one and only Consulting Detective of the world, had died. Shot multiple times at close range. Three bullets through the chest, one in his leg and two in his arm. There had been no time for explanations. Just for ambulances, sirens, blazing lights and simultaneous blurts of sound, dozens of uniformed police faltering as they saw in a state of disbelief that the inhuman statue was in fact very human. And then a jolt. Falling footsteps, heavy rain, last words - many of them being stubborn, consistent complaints from the dying man himself about not paying attention.

And all that Mycroft knew in those small hours of the morning, as he had sat at his desk twirling his umbrella, was that Sherlock was dead.

He had, being Sherlock, held onto life for far longer than the average person would have. The doctors had told John that they were amazed, that anyone else would have been dead within a minute. But they didn't know Sherlock like John or Mycroft. Sherlock saw death as one simple thing, which in turn was his worst nightmare; boredom. So he was bound to fight it off for longer than was expected.

But it did reach him, in the end, because it always does. His little brother, shot to pieces by an equally mad genius.

Not long afterwards - Mycroft put it at three days, and if there had been no funeral it would have been a lot sooner - John was gone too. He hadn't been predicted to last long, not by any of them. And he hadn't. The flat was cleared in less than a day, and the doctor was out of London with as short a goodbye as possible, and no chance of looking back.

John had never seemed like the type to dwell on the past, not if he could help it. The nightmares from the war were something different, and certainly now they would be accompanied by nightmares of a darkened warehouse and a stand-off that had lost him a close friend. But the doctor was determined to try and chase them away, and that meant getting out.

He had met Mycroft, just once, after Sherlock's death, due to another "kidnapping", a meeting which contained very little speech and quite a lot of understanding. John had simply said that he couldn't last long in a place where Sherlock simply **was**, without actually being there. Everything reminded the doctor of the detective, and it was a difficult thing to move past.

Well, Mycroft wasn't stupid. Of course John knew that, but he was hoping that maybe they'd both forget it for a minute. The point is, Mycroft could see through the doctor like glass, and knew within seconds that the real worry, was that John wouldn't stop hunting until he had found, and presumably killed, Moriarty. And this was a task that would only end in the death of the doctor himself, something John, no matter how much he missed Sherlock, just wasn't brave enough to do at the moment, even though he wanted to be. Perhaps one day he would, no, certainly one day he would, eventually. He would make Moriarty pay. But at the moment he had to find his bearings.

Nodding blankly, trying to chase all the guilt out of the doctors mind, Mycroft had waved him away dismissively with his trusted umbrella and turned his back, "Leave Moriarty to me John. Live your life. It's more suitable".

And they had parted. Mycroft hadn't seen John since. He had kept surveillance on the man for a while, just to ensure that he was safe. After all, that was his responsibility now; to protect and help move on the one man who had meant anything of importance to Sherlock. He had watched John long enough to see him find another home, far, far away from the city, and start again. And then Mycroft had left him. He had gone back to his task of protecting the British public. He didn't put any thoughts into the past, that wasn't what Mycroft did.

But there may have been a fault, a hole. He was human after all, just like his brother had finally been proved to be. And he was beginning to miss something. Not Sherlock Holmes - he was past his brotherly loss and grief, and now simply offered respect to the memory of him - and not John Watson. Just something. And not really missing, just, noticing that it wasn't there, with a second glance, a double take, and a twang of doubt. And no matter how much they tried to ignore it, with endless cups of tea for ghosts of grins or complicated crime scenes that had never seemed so confusing before, with too much lipstick and too many bottles, everyone else around him felt the same.

There was a gap in the city of London and the only two people who could fill it were gone.

oOo

Thank you very much for reading this far, hope you liked it :) please review, it would quite literally make my day if you did :)


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